


What do you want (I want you)

by Frostwells



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Cooking, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Grocery Shopping, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sleeping Together, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2018-08-13
Packaged: 2019-06-26 15:40:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15666198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostwells/pseuds/Frostwells
Summary: Flynn, all sass and belligerent cockiness, had promised them it would be his turn to cook for the team tonight.





	What do you want (I want you)

**Author's Note:**

> WHOOP! I'm back with another Garcy fanfic! I started this in May and meant to post this in June but I went to Japan for a while with friends and now I'm back!
> 
> This fic is dedicated to @rainystripe, whose countless 2am texting prompts from like May is in here. This is for you fam! (sorry for the lateness uwu)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I DO NOT OWN TIMELESS. IF I DID, WE'D BE GETTING MORE THAN A "TWO-EPISODE FINALE".  
> CLAIMER: i do own all my insomnia-induced grammatical mistakes. seriously, my bad dudes.

Flynn, all sass and belligerent cockiness, had promised them it would be his turn to cook for the team tonight.

His promise left them all wondering if one of them had accidently altered the current timeline that caused a personality transplant in Flynn to someone much more…amiable.

Seeing as Flynn been residing in the remote safe house for quite some time now, the former terrorist had felt it was time to contribute something to the bunker other than his muscles and genius intellect. He’d never done any house chores: cleaning, cooking, shopping (though, he did do his own laundry, that was a given) but that was simply because no one ever _asked_ him to. He surmised that was because they wanted to avoid as much contact with him unless it was strictly necessary. Not that he minded.

What he did mind was how atrocious the food stored in the pantry was. How anyone could tolerate it let alone gain any sustenance from it was beyond him. Popcorn and cocoa puffs – however unhealthy it may be – was the only decent thing Flynn could tolerate in that god forsaken hideout.

It also didn’t help that everyone seemed to be hopelessly doomed in the culinary arts. The constant takeout food Rufus always got seemed to hurt their food budget, hence why Agent Christopher took him off food rotation and placed him in latrine, much to the pilot’s pure horror.

“I _cannot_ be put in latrine duty!” Rufus protested adamantly. “I already deal with enough _shit_ as it is!” As exaggerated it may have sounded, it was the closest analogy the pilot could’ve conjured up, despite crass it was. Between the ‘macho’ crap he dealt between Flynn and Wyatt, and his own problems with his normal turned psychic-slash-time-traveller girlfriend, everything was just a shit show for him.

The former National Security agent only shrugged, her mind set in place. At least he wouldn’t be hurting their budget from the washroom.

Contrasting Rufus, the ex-soldier actually preferred to shop frugally. Between being in the US army and living on less than admirable wages, Wyatt’s tastes were limited; not very refined though he did have an affinity towards those ‘buy four for only a dollar’ cup noodles. Simple, cheap yet surprisingly flavoursome (depending on the flavour packet he got). Or if he’s feeling extravagant, the blonde will buy the packets instead and plate the noodles elegantly in a bowl with whatever toppings he could find in the fridge.

Lucy, on the other hand, couldn’t be trusted in the kitchen. Seeing the sorry of an excuse sandwich she slapped on together for a young John F. Kennedy, everyone agreed that the former Professor shouldn’t touch anything – not even a toaster. Perhaps fixing herself a cup of tea or coffee but that was the extent of her kitchen privileges.

Connor and Jiya grew up relatively spoiled, not having being exposed to the mundane tasks such as cooking during their adulthood. The pair, however, could definitely clean. Mason used his own vacuum invention he made for his mother as a child to help keep their living quarters impeccable whereas Jiya was able to render the dishes spotless. At least that made up for their inability to touch a frying pan.

The only decent cook was Agent Christopher’s homemade cooking, but even then, that was a rare luxury the team rarely got to experience. Denise had the privilege of leaving the bunker to dine home with her wife and children, something which everyone was envious for. If they were lucky, she would bring over some leftover tikka masala or chicken curry – a specialty of hers.

The only member the team didn’t get to experience their cooking was Flynn and Jessica’s (but Wyatt’s wife was not necessarily a team member – more so a _permanent guest_ of theirs). So, colour them surprise when the ex-NSA asset voluntarily proposed to cook them a meal after another dinner eating Wyatt’s bland, instant noodles.

Among everyone, Rufus was less than stellar at the offer.

“You. You’re gonna cook. For us.” It was meant to sound inquisitorial with a dash of scepticism but Rufus’s utter disbelief at the news made it sound more of a direct statement, yet Flynn didn’t seem to take notice (or he just didn’t really care).

Flynn leaned back in the metallic chair and crossed his long, muscular arms over his chest, his smug smirk ever present. “Yeah,” he said perkily, “I don’t see why not. Definitely beats Lucy’s ‘sandwiches’.” He waved a nonchalant hand towards her general direction with a gentle laugh and she looked mildly affronted.

From the end of the dining table, a cry of indignation could be heard from the historian who was clearly miffed at the obvious jab. Her sandwiches weren’t _that_ bad, at least, that’s what Lucy believed. It’s just most of the time (which happened to be every occasion), it looked…physically unappealing. No accounting for taste, however. No one dared to dry it.

“No offense,” Flynn amended, shooting her an apologetic yet grin. They all knew he wasn’t even sorry, especially since they all felt the same towards her non-existent culinary capabilities that doesn’t involve turning the ‘on’ switch on an electric kettle.

“Is no one even _remotely_ afraid of Flynn’s cooking?” Rufus let out a scoff as he pointed towards the kitchenette. “I mean, he’s no Gordon Ramsey and I don’t want the only thing good in this bunker to become a Hell’s Kitchen, you know what I mean?”

“I agree with Flynn,” Denise interjected, smiling light-heartedly. “It will be a nice change. Like you said Rufus, he’s no Chef Ramsey but who knows? He could be the culinary genius this bunker needs.” She directed her gaze on to the taller man who looked just as surprise as everyone else at her voice of assurance. “Thank you for offering.”

Flynn inclined his head in a nod and accepted the older woman’s gratitude, reveling in the look of utter dreadfulness on the pilot’s face.

Throwing his chopsticks into the empty, Styrofoam bowl, he leant forward and placed his hands on the table, lacing his fingers together. “So, how does this work? Do I work with a budget?” the former terrorist asked, almost a bit too…enthusiastically. It was practically unsettling.

It was that moment which everyone simultaneously wondered if he were planning on murdering them via food poisoning. It wouldn’t surprise them in the least. Slip in an odorless and tasteless drug that was fatal and – _bam!_ They’d be dead and he’d steal the Lifeboat. Simple as that.

But ever since he broke out of prison, Flynn showed no desire on wanting to kill any of them. Hell, he’d ben even amicable towards them with a dash of his natural ‘asshole-ness’. So, they’ll give him the benefit of the doubt, even if the mischievous gleam glinting in his dark eyes didn’t really inspire confidence.

Agent Christopher jutted her chin towards the refrigerator. “There’s some ingredients left over in there. If you’re missing some things and need to procure some items, conjure up a list for me by tomorrow and I’ll see if it’s acceptable.”

Flynn’s ardent smile quickly morphed into a look to something akin to disgust. There was no way in hell he was making dinner with whatever’s in the fridge and he was not about to make a list of ingredients he needed for tonight. He wanted it to be a surprise. How was he supposed to that if he had to supply Denise a _grocery list?_    

With a mock solute, Flynn sarcastically said, “Yes, ma’am,” before excusing himself from the dining table and down the corridor, most likely heading back to his bedroom.

It looked like he might have to sneak out after all.

X

It was only a little after eight in the evening when Flynn was lounging in his bed, reading a random book he stole from the almost barren library down the on other end of the corridor. The usual, grey clouds peering through the discoloured windows were now a dark hue of indigo with a mixture of the reflective sun intermingled, the spring dusk setting upon the sky. A large glow glimmering from a lamp on his desk managed to illuminate his entire sleeping quarters, the light reflecting off the sheen of the metallic walls. 

Examining up at the worn book held above his face, Flynn realized that much like the kitchen pantry, the library was just as atrocious with the bare minimum selection – if any at all. Barely managing to flip through the contents of the tome, he heard a familiar knock drumming loudly in his room.

_Knock knock…Knock-knock, knock._

Craning his head to the right, Flynn glanced at the digital clock on his makeshift nightstand. It was a little bit early for her to be here, not that he was complaining.

Getting up, the older man tossed the book on his desk and promptly fixed the ruffled bedsheets with the smooth glide of his hands. Satisfied, Flynn opened the door ajar to see Lucy resting against the side of the wall, hazel eyes peering up at him innocuously. The brunette wasn’t dressed in her nightwear yet; she was still clad in her jeans and black top, her dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail. The older man surmised she was here for some light socialization before bed. Her chin rested on top a bottle of a freshly, crisp, sealed beer she was holding confirmed his thoughts.

He had noticed Lucy only had one, which he found a bit peculiar. She’d always brought him one as an offering but he decided not to comment on it.

“May I come in?” Lucy asked airily with her lips quirked upwards in a small, haughty smirk, as if she already knew the answer.

Flynn chuckled softly and fully opened the door in a wordless invitation. The historian kicked herself off the wall and pivoted herself into his bedroom, the sound of the metal hatch locking behind her. Lucy plopped down on top his bed unceremoniously with a contented sigh. Toeing off her shoes, she rested her back against the steeled wall; her legs straightened out across the bed so her feet slightly dangled over the edge of the bed.

Flynn made his towards his cot and copied Lucy, sitting in the same position as her, their shoulders pressing up against each other.

“Not tired yet?” he asked once he was comfortably situated beside her, arms crossed.

Lucy shook her head as she unclasped the bottle cap with her hand through her black shirt. “Nope,” she answered, popping the ‘p’ as emphasis.

Hearing the familiar _hiss_ of the carbonated bubbles being pressurized, Lucy brought the cool bottle to her lips and took a large gulp, reveling the feel of the coldness of the draft beer sliding smoothly down her throat. Bitter yet sweet; crisp and strong. Almost like the man beside her.

Once she finished taking a swig of the draft beer, Lucy let out a loud gasp and wiped away any offending liquid on her lips with the back of her hand. She offered the beer to Flynn, the fizz feeling as it were popping in her chest coupled with the burn of the alcohol. His lips quirked upwards in amusement at the gesture. He murmured a quick “thanks” before his long, calloused fingers brushed over her own as he took the bottle out of her hand, taking a large sip.

If it were anyone else, Lucy would be absolutely mortified at the thought of someone drinking out of the same bottle as her. It was unhygienic – completely unsanitary – not to mention unnecessary. That’s how diseases and sicknesses were passed on. That’s how _mono_ was passed on. No thank you.

Yet, as her relationship with the former terrorist evolved over time since 1936, she found herself caring less and less about the impractical. Lucy had learned that any one of these missions hunting down Rittenhouse sleeper agents throughout time had a high risk of fatality from both sides. She didn’t have the luxury being a minor germaphobe when Lucy, herself, could die on these missions.

 _Carpe diem,_ she would tell herself as a reminder. _Seize the goddamn day, Preston._

So, she did.

Ever since the historian accidently fell asleep in his bed and woke up to see his gentle, smiling face, Lucy realized three things:

One, the usual nightmares that usually plagued her as she slept didn’t occur. No thoughts of killing herself and her mother made its way to her dreams. There were no visions of Amy disappearing into smoke-like wisps just as she finally got her sister back into her arms.

The second being was that out of everyone in the bunker, Lucy found that Garcia Flynn was the easiest to talk to – to be around with. There was no awkward tension with Flynn like she felt with Wyatt, the cluelessness that came with talking with Rufus and Jiya, being unable to understand their pop culture references. She most definitely did not feel the parental comfort conversing with Flynn that she found in Agent Christopher and Connor Mason.

Lastly, Flynn’s bed was really damn comfortable.

Curling his lip from the bittersweet taste, Flynn handed her back the bottle, though she raised her hand, signalling him to hold it for a little while longer. He let the beer hang loosely from his fingertips, the dark, foamy, liquid sloshing around its container.

“Is there no other beer in the fridge?” Flynn asked, his raspy as he eyed the drink with distain. “Tasted like murky water, not beer.”

Lucy shrugged nonchalantly. “It was the only the left. I think Mason drank most of it.”

Flynn scowled. It was no secret that the head engineer was a drinker to say the least. A bottle there, a shot here, perhaps lace it with his daily cuppa (though, Lucy can’t begin to imagine what alcoholic drink pairs well with bloody _tea_ ). The man beside her let out a foreign curse underneath his breath and it took her a moment to register it was in his mother tongue.

“Looks like I have to buy a whole case for us and hide it then,” he said and shifted himself forward off the bed.

“For us?” Lucy asked, not quite what he meant by that. What did ‘living’ with Flynn (if she could even call it that) have to do with him wanting to buy a whole case of beer solely for just the two of them?

Flynn tossed on a beige turtleneck, his voice slightly muffled by the fabric. He answered, “If you’re gonna be living with me, might as well go the full monty and have our own stash of beer, don’t you think?” Having the turtleneck fully on, he briefly mussed up his hair with his hand and with an afterthought, Flynn added, “Of course, among a few other things.”

The young brunette coloured, finally understanding what he meant.

After their accidental ‘morning after’, Lucy had made it a habit to seek out Flynn’s company, whether it be in his bedroom or him lounging around the living room, close to her sofa. Talking led drinking and drinking led to sleeping…on his bed, every damn time. It became a common occurrence that Flynn took the liberty to find and secure an extra mattress deep in the bunker just so he can accommodate an extra person.

He wasn’t quite sure how he would approach the topic to Agent Christopher that their precious historian had now taken up residency in his bunker and required an extra bed. Instead, he just kept his mouth shut though he’s pretty aware by now that everyone assumed she’s residing in his bedroom indefinitely considering she’s never seen on her sofa in the mornings anymore.

Finding a camaraderie in the former terrorist, it just felt _right,_ if not almost natural. Though, if someone had told Lucy about her newfound relationship with the man that spent the entirety of 2016 trying to kill them (more Wyatt and Rufus than her, but still – he tried to wipe out her lineage, so that still counted), she would’ve thrown a book at their faces and then proceeded to check them in a psychiatric ward.

(However, Flynn did exactly just that when they first met in 1937 about them being together and she did not throw a book in his face. Nor did she sent him into a psychiatric ward, despite how much Lucy and the others wanted to.)

“Agent Christopher won’t give you that kind of budget.” It was meant to sound matter-of-factly but it just came out downright tenacious, even to her own ears.

Flynn’s brow furrowed, lips pursed in disbelief. “You think I’m going to ask her for money like she’s some kind of _bank?_ ”

His voice was guttural and deep – she heard that familiar tone enough times to understand that although sarcastic and rhetorical, Flynn really had no intentions on asking Denise for funds. That’s when realization dawned on Lucy’s face.

“You’re gonna sneak out.”

He shrugged on his dark coat. “Damn right I am,” he remarked slyly before jutting his chin towards his bedroom door. “Now, go get your coat.”

Before Flynn could open the door, Lucy called out to him.

“Wait, wait! I’m coming too?”  

It was one thing to offer support Flynn in his wrongdoings, whether that be murdering Sleeper Agents from a seemingly white-supremacy, Neo-Nazi organization that happened to be her entire lineage to something less convoluted – like covering for him when he sneaks out. While Lucy definitely drew a line at murdering people, she even drew a further line at crossing Denise. She’d rather face the entire Rittenhouse organization head on instead of facing the unadulterated fury of Denise Christopher, former agent of Homeland Security.

Flynn stood framed by the doorway, watching her expectantly.

“You can either stay here and get some sleep or you can come with me on thrilling adventure to a Wal-Mart and pick up things you might want. It’s up to you, Lucy.”

“Are you – are you going to be stealing them? The food?” Lucy asked almost skeptically.

He looked wounded before letting out a laugh. “What do you take me for, Lucy? Unlike a certain… _soldier_ , I’m not poor. I’ve amassed quite a hefty savings in the bank.” She opened her mouth but Flynn continued on, as if he already knew what was going to come out of her mouth before she did. “Don’t worry; they’re not stolen nor is it blood money. If you must know, I simply took advantage of time travel. You’d be surprised how much winnings you earn on American sporting betting pools.”

This admission eased a part of her concerns. At least she didn’t have to worry about running away from the local cops if they did get spotted for thievery. Lucy had a feeling they wouldn’t make it very far holding casings of beers and groceries in their hand, if they somehow managed to get passed the store security first, however unlikely that seemed. They were good historical thieves, not modern day thieves. At least, not Lucy.

Besides, an adventure to Wal-Mart seemed more appealing than sleeping in his bedroom alone.

Her shoulders sagged in defeat.

“Fine.”

Flynn let out a hum. “Excellent. Now, get dressed. We’re going.” Seeing her pointed glare at his authoritative tone, he quickly added, “Please.”

For a moment, Lucy had thoughts about arguing with the former terrorist, to convince him to change his mind and what he was about to do was wrong. Then again, if that didn’t work in the past about working together, there was no way she’d convince him not to go blooding shopping. Besides, it wasn’t like he was sneaking off the base to go on a Rittenhouse murder spree (more like just a simple shopping spree, a task she’d never thought to associate with Garcia Flynn) and she was most definitely not his mother to boss him around. Might as well save her breath and just go with it. If Denise unleashed her wrath upon them, at least Lucy had Flynn to drag down with her.

With an irritated sigh, she left to get her coat.

X

With a final look in the reflection from the grungy window, Lucy deemed herself to look somewhat presentable. Wearing the dark jeans and black blouse from earlier this evening, the brunette also tossed on the beige trench coat she had stolen from 1981 (she couldn’t bear to depose of it after the mission was completed – she had looked too cute in it). Wearing some light makeup, she pulled off her hair tie, giving her dark hair a thick, voluminous style to it.

“Going out, Luce?”

Lucy let out a startled gasp at the unexpected voice and whipped her head around to see Wyatt standing in the kitchenette, holding a white, porcelain mug. His usual spiked, chestnut coloured hair was damp, fresh from a shower, a grey towel draped around his neck to soak in any offending droplets. The former Delta Force solder looked at her inquisitively, as if wondering why she was dressed in such a matter at such a late hour. 

She nervously chuckled – a bad habit she could never break when she was caught doing something she wasn’t meant to be doing. 

“Wyatt,” Lucy greeted, her voice higher pitched than the norm; even without seeing herself, she could feel how forced her smile must look. “What are you doing here?”

The younger man looked at her skeptically. “I’m making tea.” He raised the mug in his hand to prove his point. “What about you?”

“Oh, y’know.” She lightly tugged on the lapels of her trench coat. “Just trying on some clothes, seeing if still looks decent along with –”

“C’mon, Lucy. I’m not stupid.”

The brunette looked up at him in surprise. She never said he was. Lucy was hoping to play him as the fool – because an awkward confrontation with her former one-night lover was something she really didn’t need right now – but she’d never call Wyatt Logan stupid.

(His wife, however, was an entirely different story.)

Wyatt placed the cup on the counter, and placed his hand behind him on the ledge, leaning on it.

“I thought something was up when I saw Flynn waiting at the entrance,” he stated, his face scrunching up as he mentioned the older man’s name and then he nodded his head to her, “and here you are…dressed.”

Feeling guilty, Lucy stuttered her words out, trying to form a sentence that seemingly sounded coherent in her head but apparently, not so comprehensible aloud.

“Wyatt, I – Agent Christopher doesn’t know and –”

He raised a hand, signalling her to allow him to talk. “Lucy, I get it.”

“You do?”

Wyatt nodded his head, the corner his lips slightly quirked up though it didn’t quite reach his cerulean eyes.

“Yeah. I won’t tell Christopher that you’re sneaking out of the bunker with Flynn,” Wyatt promised. “I mean, you had my back when I snuck out to meet Jessica. Guess it’s my turn to return the favour, even if you’re with…” His face quickly morphed into abhorrent distain. “… _him_.”

“Thank you, Wyatt,” Lucy murmured, relieved that he took it better than she expected. Since their trip to New York, 1919, Wyatt would do nothing but scowl at the sight of her and Flynn together in contempt. He had made it known that despite miraculously getting his deceased-now-resurrected-from-the-dead wife back into his arms, he had yet to completely seal away any lingering, romantic feelings he had harboured for the former Stanford Professor.

When Wyatt saw the empty sofa one late evening, it had crushed him knowing that Lucy was in another man’s bedroom. It definitely didn’t help that said man’s room happened to be bloody Garcia Flynn’s. The goddamn terrorist that had spent the entirety of the previous year trying to murder them. He had checked it off as a one night thing but when one night turned into two and then three, the blonde had come to accept that his former love was moving on.

And he should be doing the same. God knew he’s trying, this being the first indication.

Before Lucy could excuse herself, Wyatt said, “I don’t know what you two are up to, and I hope to God it isn’t anything life threatening but promise me, Lucy, you’ll be smart. You’ll…you’ll be safe.”

Lucy regarded him for a moment before nodding her head.

“I promise.”

x

The ex-NSA asset tapped his boot against the floor in an impatient manner. Flynn didn’t know why Lucy was taking so bloody long. All he told her was to grab a coat and go. If Denise catches them, there was a chance it could be game over before the adventure could even start.

Hearing heels clacking against the steeled flooring down the corridor, Flynn glanced up from the entryway, and all irritation from her tardiness was forgotten. Even with just a simple touch up, he couldn’t help but take notice on how her coat and make up accentuated Lucy’s ever present attractiveness.

Before Flynn could voice his compliments to her, Lucy stopped in front of him and asked, “So, how do we do this?”

Seeing Lucy looking up at him expectantly, he closed his mouth and cleared his throat. Ah, well. There will always be another opportunity. Hopefully.

“I’ve configured the alarm not to go off for another six hours by the cortex. That should give us enough time to go to Wal-Mart, buy food, get out, and come back here,” Flynn said smoothly before glowering at the short woman ever so slightly. “Make that five hours and forty-five minutes since you took quite a while getting a coat.”

“Sorry,” Lucy replied, apologetic. “I was held up.”

“By your man-boy, Wyatt, I assume.” Seeing the guilty shift in her hazel eyes, a pang of slight jealousy constricted his chest.

He dragged his gaze away from her.

Flynn had no right to feel this way for another woman that wasn’t his wife. Even after death, he wasn’t willing to part with Lorena and his little girl, Iris. He was willing to bend the laws of reality by travelling through time and space, between present and past, fighting to fix his wrongdoings which his girls had paid with their lives.

But Flynn, how could he _not_ feel _something_ for Lucy?

He had never believed in God. Where was He when Flynn needed him most? Where was he when he prayed for an absolution? It was only then in rundown bar in Sao Paolo, Brazil, 2014, did the broken man realize that God was no Man but rather it was Lucy Preston who had saved him from Damnation. With shoulder length, brown hair with little tiny whips of grey, honeyed eyes hardened from no doubt of countless experience, she had handed him a bible – his guide – and led him down a new path.

Lucy had travelled in her own timeline, fulling knowing that by doing so, there was a chance of ruining the friction of reality, erasing herself from history in the process. She had travelled back in time to give him her journal, to save him. Though, to this day, Flynn would never know the motive behind her actions.

By that one encounter, Flynn knew then that she was selfless, strong-willed and kind and no man was worthy of her. Not Noah, not Wyatt – hell, not even him. But Flynn had always been a selfish bastard. He hoped that by some miraculous chance that once, Lucy would just…she’d just see him.

Feeling a warm hand on his bicep, Flynn snapped out of his stupor and glanced down at Lucy, who was peering up at him in concern.

“Flynn? You okay?” she asked worriedly. “You spaced out on me.”

The dark haired man gave her a thin-lipped smile. “I’m fine,” Flynn said curtly.

With shapely eyebrows raised skeptically, Lucy obviously didn’t believe him but chose not to press him. There was a time and place for everything and asking him a penny for his thoughts while trying to sneak out of the bunker was definitely not the time.

Just as Flynn was about to turn the handle on the rusted yet sturdy door, a chilling voice echoed from behind them.

“And where do you think you two are going?”

_Ah, shit._

Flynn and Lucy almost jumped out of their skin, the familiar voice frosty enough to make even the most hardened men cave in submission. Slowly, the pair turned around to see Agent Christopher standing a few feet behind them, her voice grim and furious. Sleeved-covered arms were crossed over her chest authoritatively, her eyes cool, assessing. Denise was still dressed in her day attire, not having the chance to change into her nightwear just yet.

“Well?” she pressed when her question was met with silence, waiting to hear an explanation from the time travelling historian and soldier.

Flynn was the first one to speak. Taking a step forward, he remarked, “Lucy and I, we were just planning on getting some groceries for tomorrow’s dinner. Maybe even stock up a little on some extra things.”

The brown woman blinked. She clearly wasn’t expecting that response. Maybe sneaking out do something like grievous like committing an erroneous crime (but Denise had to remind her that they’re in _2018 –_ half of the crimes the team pulled occurred place in the past). Yet, doing something innocuous such as grocery shopping? It was absolutely bizarre to imagine Flynn, number four on Interpol’s Ten Most Wanted, just casually strolling around a Wal-Mart, pushing a metal cart, picking out ingredients for their dinner with not-so-tall time travelling historical professor by his side.

It was so absurd that it was almost half believable.

Just half.

“And what are your means of transportation?” Agent Christopher inquired, her once cool gaze hardening as she scrutinized the pair. “Have you two forgotten that you’re fugitives from the American Government? And Flynn – you’re a wanted man. I’d still like the government to think the Iranians broke you out, not me, thank you very much.”

This time, it was Lucy who intervened. “Denise,” the younger woman started, “I know what we’re doing is against the rules and I know you’re only doing this to protect us. But just this once, can you overlooked this? I promise we’ll be safe. We’ll keep constant vigilance, keeping a low profile.”

Agent Christopher stared at them for a long, unbearable moment.

“I’d appreciate it if you consulted this with me first before sneaking out behind my back.” Their shoulders sagged in relief, realizing that she’s permitting them to go. Lifting the back of her black, collared shirt, Denise pulled out a standard glock and handed over to Flynn who looked at her in confusion. “Use _only_ for emergencies,” she explained sternly and Flynn nodded, putting inside the waistband of his trousers. “Keep each other safe. I want you two back before midnight. I’ll have Mason reconfigure any bypasses you made to the alarm and convert it to zero hundred hours. If you’re not here before then, just letting you know there will be dire, and I mean _dire,_ consequences. Understood?”

Not wanting to press their luck, Flynn nodded while Lucy murmured, “Understood” just loud enough for Denise to hear.

Just as they were about to leave the bunker, her voice called out to them one more time.

“Oh and guys?” They turned around. “Next time you pull a stunt like this, I’m injecting you with trackers. Not open for discussion.”

With the eerie smiling that was playing on the former Homeland Security Agent’s lips, neither had any doubt in their minds to believe otherwise.

X

Flynn hopped into the driver’s seat of the black Sedan, pushing the keys Agent Christopher had so graciously allowed them to borrow into ignition but not without the understandable threats.

“If there’s so much as a scratch on my car, believe me, latrine duties and trackers would be the _least_ of your worries.”

It completely baffled him on how a small, Indian woman could emanate absolutely authority and control. Perhaps decades in the force, working hard to earn her stature hardened her into the woman today. She did live a double life – accomplishing a high feat of fooling Homeland Security that Flynn’s hiding out in Iran while the others had either perished in the Mason Industries explosion or just simply vanished in the time machine.

In reality, Agent Christopher kept them all safe, protecting them because in some odd maternal way, she loved them all as if they were one of her own children. Flynn had a newfound respect for her, even if she did send him to jail.

The door to the passenger side opened up and Lucy entered, quickly shutting it and strapping on the seatbelt. Seeing that they’re both secured, Flynn revved the engine and pulled out of the driveway, into the suburbs of Oakland.

“So where to?” Lucy asked, staring at the vast darkness of the fields around them in wonder, the only source of lighting coming from the headlight of the vehicle.

She never had the chance to really take in her surroundings of this foreign land, most especially at night. The only time she had ever left the present in present day was to chase after a young JFK. Other than that, the only time the historian ever really got to see the broad daylight was in a time between the present and past, the not-yet-now and the not-quite then.

Without taking his eyes off the road ahead, he answered, “I was thinking of maybe a Target. But then again, Wal-Mart has more of a variety of goods. So, whatever comes first.” He glanced at her to gauge her reaction before quickly redirecting his attention on the dark road ahead of them. “Sounds good?”

Lucy nodded at that but felt silly when she realized that Flynn couldn’t see her. She cleared her throat and said, “Sure” before refocusing her gaze on the darken scenery beyond the thick windows. Flynn had suggested to turn on the radio, to play some tunes but this wasn’t their car. If they had stolen this, then sure, they can shuffle through the radio stations without the fear of messing a preferred setting of Denise’s. And besides, the pair had been out of 2018 for quite some time; they’re not sure what kind of music stations are out there. Instead, they opted for the comfortable silence with the occasional small talk (mostly ramblings on her part, much to Flynn’s amusement).

When the fields blended into a small town and then into a suburban area of a local city, it was only then did it sink in that they were quite a ways out from the safe house. How isolated they were without even realizing it. While stowed away, hidden from modern civilization, the bunker definitely beat living in a luxurious guesthouse, Neo-Nazis lurking in everyone nook and cranny.

Glancing at herself in the review mirror, Lucy can sort of see how she might be a bit unrecognizable compared to a few months ago, when she was held captive by the Rittenhouse Queen. Flynn, on the hand, can be more difficult to blend in considering his abnormal height for a Caucasian. More susceptible to being recognized from the feds or worse, her _blood_ family along with their lackeys.

The driver briefly looked up in the mirror and caught her eye.

“Everything okay, Lucy?” Flynn asked, his lips up in a small smile.

She blinked and realized he was talking to her – who else?

“Huh? Oh – oh, yeah. I just – it just fully hit me that we’re back in 2018. We’re wanted fugitives and for the first time, we’re not in disguises,” she answered, chuckling in disbelief.

“We’ll be fine,” the dark haired man answered. He sounded so confident, so sure of himself – Lucy almost believed him.

“I know, but what if somehow, we get made? I mean, no offence, but you’re not exactly average heighted, Flynn.” Lucy raised a hand and made an up-and-down gesture towards his six foot four person.

Flynn considered her concern. He understood where she was coming from. While being White was the most common race in America, his height certainly wasn’t. Amidst a sea of people of various heights, it was relatively easy to pick him out, no matter how discreet the terrorist was trying to be (most often _not_ discreet).

That, however, was a problem that they’ll deal with if need be, should it arise. Until then, Flynn hoped luck would be on their side tonight. After all, for once, they’re not on the hunt to murder any pathological sleeper agents hiding throughout American history – perhaps Lady Luck would take that into consideration when deciding if they make it or break it out of their little excursion to Wal-Mart.

As soon as they pulled up into a scarce parking lot and walked into the superstore without being accosted by security, the time travellers believed Lady Luck was indeed on their side tonight. With every step into the brightly lit market, sounds of some modern pop song echoing throughout the market, they felt as if a small weight was lifted off their shoulders, the paranoia of being recognized slowly dissipating. Flynn and Lucy just held the right amount of caution without having the need to constantly check over their shoulders.

Grabbing a cart that was isolated from the outdoor shed (no doubt thanks to lazy patrons who couldn’t be arsed to wheel it back to where it belonged), Flynn steered it into the fruits and vegetables section;  Lucy trailed close, watching him with curiosity. It was surreal to say the least, seeing Garcia Flynn analyze the goods, examining a few items in his hand before ultimately choosing potatoes and other vegetation that passed his mental inspection and placing it in the cart.

More than a year ago, they were at each other’s throats, trying to persuade each other of who’s right, what’s justified and who was standing on the right side of this invisible war. When Lucy realized all her failed efforts to subdue the terrorist, starting from the Hindenburg, to Valor Castle in Nazi Germany, train station in 1865…she came to terms that she didn’t really want to stop him. What Flynn was doing wasn’t justified nor was it right, but she understood his motives; his drive to stop and murder everyone that was associated with Rittenhouse.

When their goals finally aligned just like the future version of herself foretold, something shifted in their relationship. From enemies to temporary allies to a close acquaintances, Lucy found herself gravitating towards Flynn even when she was emotionally compromised. Instead of closing herself from the world, the older man shot bullets into her walls, bringing them down and offering her whatever comfort she’d take from him. Lucy had thought herself to be insane, going stir crazy from limited contact in the bunker but she soon learned that wasn’t the case at all. While it wasn’t always the case, Flynn genuinely cared for the historian and Lucy found herself reciprocating his feelings.

If she didn’t, she wouldn’t had moved into his bedroom indefinitely let alone be here shopping for tomorrow’s meal with him.

“You okay?”

The deep, accented English snapped Lucy out of her thoughts. She glanced up at Flynn who looked down at her over his shoulder when he realized she zoned out on him.

She nodded her head, giving him a smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m okay. I was just thinking.”

“I can see that,” Flynn murmured, his voice light. “Care to tell me what about?”

They walked over the butcher section, Flynn examining the different cuts of meat out on the glass display case. Some were grounded and blooded, some others were still fresh on carcases. Was that a whole pig in the storeroom she could see?

“Nothing of importance,” the brunette started, adverting her gaze away from the racks of red meat to gaze at Flynn who tried to focus on her and the soon-to-be food simultaneously. “I mean, it’s just…don’t you think all of this weird?”

Flynn raised a thick eyebrow. “What’s weird?”

“Well, not _weird_ ,” Lucy amended, furrowing her brows, wondering how she should phrase her words, despite usually being eloquent with her phraseology. “Do you ever think how far we’ve come from when we first met? From the Hindenburg to now? To here?”

He seemed amused by her questions. “Of course,” Flynn answered, before telling the butcher that he wanted a dozen cuts of the sixteen ounces of sirloin steaks and Lucy briefly wondered what the hell he’s going to do with all those meats. “You were the one who told me that we were gonna be together, that we’re ‘gonna be quite the team someday’, Lucy. Your words exactly, not mine. I was starting to lose hope whenever you shunned me away. Repeatedly, I might add.”

“Could you really blame me though?” Lucy retorted and lowered her voice marginally so no prying ears could hear her what she was about to say. “I thought you were a psycho terrorist who slaughtered his family, burning the world to the ground and tried to change America as we know it! Didn’t help that you already seemed to know who I was without giving me a proper explanation. Thought I had to dub you as a stalker on top of your already less than pleasing attributes.”

The last part came out more of a mumble and at this point, Flynn was grinning broadly, green eyes twinkling in mirth. Sure, at some other given point in the past, he would’ve been highly offended at the way Lucy had painted of him: textbook classic of a psychopath. But he knew that if she held any shred of her original beliefs, she wouldn’t allowed herself to be emotionally vulnerable in his presence. No late night conversations, no shared beers, no sleeping in his bed – none of this trust they had built up from the moment Flynn had moved in with the team would’ve never ever existed.

The butcher returned with the cuts, all stored in a vacuum sealed bag. Flynn handed the man cash, still smiling broadly in amusement at Lucy’s confession.

Flynn pushed the cart away from the meats and down a random isle, mindlessly scanning the products on the shelves. “And when, exactly, did you stop seeing me as a ‘monster’, Lucy?”

The brunette never missed a beat.

“September 25th, 1780.”

Flynn looked at the young historian with surprise at how easy she answered the question. No hesitance, no need of a moment to think it over; as if that instance was truly the turning point for her.

Recalling the significance of the date, he couldn’t hold back the sound of astonishment in his tone. “The Revolutionary War? With Benedict Arnold?” Flynn asked before a flash of ire flitted over his features. “The year where you let _John Rittenhouse_ live?”

“We discussed this in 1893 already, Flynn,” Lucy retorted tiredly.

It was true. They did when the older time traveller had kidnapped her after the young Rittenhouse founder escaped. Lucy had no desire to re-explain that there were no guarantees that Rittenhouse would’ve been truly wiped out. Like the boy’s father had warned, there were others. Cut off one head, a few more would sprout out – similar to Hydras.

“You could’ve let me tried!”

“And what – lose yourself in the process? Lose that small scrap of humanity that’s left inside of you?” Lucy snapped, keeping her voice loud enough for only the two of them to hear and shook her head. “No. Not if I could help it.”

“Why were you so adamant on believing I am –” Flynn hesitated for a brief moment and quickly corrected himself, “– I _was_ a good man?

Lucy glanced at the tiled flooring beneath them before looking up at him and answered, “I never thought you were. For the longest time, I hated you; I despised everything you stood for. You were a killer, a terrorist, a psychopath who was trying to burn everything to the ground. You _erased_ Amy.” Lucy’s hazel eyes clouded with contempt for Flynn as she recalled his previous self and he actually flinched seeing the familiar hatred that once burned brightly for him. Guilt wracked through him as she mentioned the loss of her baby sister and there was no amount of apologies Flynn could tell her that he didn’t mean to erase Amy and hurt Lucy in the process.

When he had first met this Lucy, he was nothing but amused at her childish loathing the historian held for him, fully knowing that one day, they would work together. A future version of the brunette before him had told him so – and he never had any doubt to believe otherwise, not when everything else she had told him turned out to be true.

Nowadays, Flynn was rather accustomed to seeing her kind, bright eyes whenever she regarded him in passing or in conversation. Seeing what she felt about him prior to moving in the bunker was a bit unsettling and was glad her opinions of him changed over time.

“But then you told me about your family. What your plans were once everything was over. How you were doing this just to see your wife and child one last time before…before leaving them. It was then did I understand that you don’t see the world as black and white. You knew what you were doing was wrong, that you’ve done horrible things. Yet, you were driven by desperation just to see your loved ones. We all were. It was then did I realize that you were only human.”

All this time, it was Lucy who viewed the world to be black and white, good and bad, Ying and Yang – a very dangerous viewpoint for a historian. Garcia Flynn was the bad guy and she was the good person. Her job was to save history and take the bad guy down.

But seeing the man who shot Abraham Lincoln holding her worn, leather-bound journal with the golden initials ‘LP’ engraved, the seamless pages filled with her handwritten thoughts, perhaps the scales had tipped and the world wasn’t in balanced after all. Her whole life was destroyed by the man standing beside her yet ironically, his entire belief system was founded by Lucy.

_Circle of Life, much?_

The ‘goodness’ she saw in herself turned out to be all for naught, being the Princess of a white supremacist, Neo-Nazi organization that Flynn was trying his damndest to destroy. She bore the blood of the first founding member, John Rittenhouse; all their darkest evils and deeds part of her ever growing legacy. If Flynn had killed John in 1780, he would’ve erased Lucy from the timeline – though nowadays, the fact didn’t seem to faze her as much if it meant her mother never being born either. By that case, doesn’t that make her the monster instead of Flynn?

Lucy didn’t know whether to laugh or cry at that revelation.

Flynn eyed her as she struggled with her inner turmoil, wanting to see any doubt in her faith she had for him – to see if what she had told him was a lie. It was clear to him that he needn’t have worried. While she may had distrusted him as they chased each other throughout time, fighting each other, it was now in this moment that he could see that her views of him had changed. And perhaps, even the beliefs she held for herself.

Seeing her honeyed eyes clouded with worry, Lucy biting her upper lip, Flynn had a feeling it wasn’t very pleasant thoughts.

One hand on the cart, Flynn boldly moved his right hand to hold her much smaller one, practically engulfing her own. Hers was smooth and cool against his warm, calloused ones, his being worn from years of being in the military. From handling grenades, various firearms and physical fights, it was only natural that his hands would be more rugged than her own. Hers was a little rough too, from having to write and read innumerable texts over the span of her lifetime, no doubt thanks to her mother.

Flynn felt her jolt in surprise underneath his touch, her honeyed eyes widened as she glanced at their joined hands, back to his face and then back to their hands again. The sight of her being rattled was almost endearing; he couldn’t hold back a small chuckle.

“You’re overthinking things,” Flynn murmured, lips quirked in a small, reassuring smile. Did he mean the oddly out-of-character handholding gesture or her being lost in her thoughts? “We can talk more about this later when we get back to the bunker, okay?”

“Okay.” Her voice sounded oddly meek, even to her own ears. It wasn’t like her to answer like that but then again, tonight seemed to be an evening of surprises.

She half expected for Flynn to let go of her hand once he successfully dragged her out of her mind. After all, she never pegged him to show any physical affection in public whether it be towards a friend or a significant other (she knew the latter to be a lie – he was definitely fine with PDA with his former wife but Lucy didn’t need that little fact to contradict her beliefs). Yet, he surprised her when he resumed pushing the cart, his large grip still holding her own.

Just when she thought the conversation was done for at least the time being, the sound of Flynn’s gravelly voice made her crane her head to look up at the older man.

“And…thank you for believing in me, Lucy.”

Flynn didn’t look at her though she didn’t need to see his face to see the sincerity in his words. His voice, the honest emotions oozing in his words, the rare, genuine smile he sported in her company – it was enough for Lucy to understand that he was grateful for her.

_Thank you for exactly the same, Flynn._

Her mouth opened but Lucy herself unable to voice her thoughts. Instead, she gave his hand a light squeeze along a smile of sincerity, something she found giving Flynn a lot as of late.

“You’re welcome.”

X

They didn’t hold hands back to the car, not when they had to carry countless plastic, shopping bags: Flynn carrying cases of beer and a paper bag filled with Absolut Vodka and Lucy holding multiple Wal-Mart logoed plastic bags containing ingredients for their dinner. It was just an hour before their curfew, civilians scurrying about to either get home or rushing to pick up last minute things.

Lucy was reasonably exhausted by the time they returned to the bunker, unused to trekking about in a Wal-Mart and then weightlifting all these groceries in the dead of the night. They reported back to Agent Christopher who appeared to be pleased that for once, they heeded her rules (not that she was worried in the slightest).

The living area seemed to be rather devoid of the other roommates, everyone most likely retired to their bedrooms for the night. Well, it is past about midnight and as far as they’re concerned, no one else seemed to be active at night with the majority of them being morning people.

They unpacked their belongings on the counter before storing them in their respective places. Flynn jotted his name on a sticky note and placed them on his purchases; Lucy gathered the empty plastic bags and shoved all of them into one plastic bag to reuse later.

Lucy was about to head out to Flynn’s bedroom but stopped when she realized that he wasn’t trailing alongside her. The older time traveller was examining various containers of spices and grabbed a metal bowl from the cabinet. He seriously wasn’t about to cook now…was he?

“Hey, it’s getting late,” Lucy pointed out. “Aren’t you gonna get some rest?”

Flynn tore off the Ceram wrap of the packaged meat and tossed the steak on a cutting board. Wiping his hand on a clean rag, he opened the bottom cabinets and took out a large, pot, placing it on the stove while still being mindful of the noise.

He glanced over at Lucy who was still standing by the corridor, watching him under a curious gaze.

“I still have things to prep for tomorrow’s dinner,” Flynn answered, motioning towards the kitchen and gave her a thin but kind smile. “You go on ahead, Lucy.”

With that, he resumed his attention to the task at hand with renewed focus. The brunette let out a small chuckle at the look of concentration formed on his face. Flynn was really serious about all this; about making the team dinner for once during the entire time they’ve been living together.

Few months ago, he wouldn’t even dare to offer his help with house chores, claiming that his intel should suffice since they were so adamant for his knowledge to the point where they even broke him out of jail. No one could really retort to that, especially since it was true. Without Flynn, they would be blindly chasing Rittenhouse throughout time, unaware of who they should kill and where.

Yet, here he was; Garcia Flynn, ex-NSA asset, former soldier for the Croatian Army, terrorist turned ally, was prepping dishes, garnishes or whatever he’s doing, for…dinner.

If that wasn’t a peculiar thought let alone _sight_ right there, then she didn’t know what would be.

Understanding that she would be of no use to Flynn in the kitchen (he would’ve had a death wish if he allowed her to help him), Lucy excused herself to the living area by the sofa and pulled out a black, duffle bag containing her personal belongings. Shirts, dresses, toiletries, and both her black, identical leather-bound journals – one that she has yet to write, and the other was the future journal she will write that Flynn gave to her. They were jammed towards the bottom of her bag, the historian not wanting to see it as a reminder, yet, ironically, it’s constantly ever present in her thoughts.

She grabbed only the essentials and pushed her bag underneath the sofa once more. A part of Lucy wondered if she should stop this ignorance of their roommate status and just fully move into Flynn’s room. Despite being a storage room converted into a bedroom, it was certainly more spacious than the bedroom she used to share with Jiya. Didn’t help that the historian literally took up residence in his room every night to the point where the older man was forced to grab a mattress from somewhere in the base.

Lucy quickly freshened up in the bathroom, not forgetting to place the metal chair by the door. She made a mental note to ask Denise to install a proper lock because a common high school auditorium seat won’t stop her fellow team members from accidently coming inside while occupied. Or worse, someone would forget to put the folding chair by the entrance and another person would walk in announced. That would be a nightmare. Fresh from a much needed, hot shower, the brunette tossed the towel and her dirty clothed into her hamper against the wall. She eyed the almost filled bin almost apologetically. Lucy will do laundry another day.

The bedroom was still missing another occupant other than Lucy; Flynn was probably still preparing for tomorrow’s dinner. Pulling the blue covers back, she slid underneath them, humming at the pleasant feeling of the cool sheets and pillows against her warm skin. She felt her shoulders sagging in contentment, her muscles easing up.

She left the lamp on his desk on – something Flynn and Lucy did whenever one of them got to bed first. That way, they don’t have to trudge around the pitch black storage room, bumping into the furniture. At least they were considerate roommates. If it were Rufus or Wyatt sharing a room with Flynn, respect and politeness would be practically non-existent between them.

Shifting her body weight, Lucy turned around in the bed, lying on her side. Lucy once read in a textbook that if she remained still in bed for about fifteen minutes or so, she would eventually fall asleep, deep in REM. But no matter how exhausted she felt, how long she kept her eyes closed, sleep would not come to her. Though, to be fair, she didn’t know how long she’d been lying in bed for. It could’ve been five minutes, it could’ve been an hour. But, she felt absolutely tired, utter exhaustion were seeping into her bones, yet her mind felt like it was shocked with newfound energy.

Normally, Lucy didn’t mind staying up at the dead of the night, conversing with Flynn; the duo being something of a night owl made them ideal roommates. Both wanted to run away from their reveries, not wanting to experience different realities of where their loved ones were alive or worse, reliving their deaths. Tonight didn’t seemed to be any different, despite feeling completely drained. Perhaps, she should really fix her unhealthy sleeping schedule.

Hearing the metal door creak open, Lucy craned her head upwards to see Flynn walking in. shutting it firmly behind him. He glanced at her, expecting to see her sleeping form but was surprised to see her looking up at him.

“Can’t sleep?” Flynn asked, his voice low as he walked over towards a filing cabinet and tugged it open.

Lucy shook her head, the sound of the pillow rustling underneath her loud. “Nope,” she answered airily.

He looked sympathetic at that, the older man experiencing countless nights similar to hers. The deep bags underneath Flynn’s dark, green eyes proved it all. Pulling out clothes and a grey towel, Flynn turned towards Lucy and said, “Well, after I’m done taking a shower, I’ll turn off the lamp. Maybe, that’ll help.”

She hummed out what sounded like an ‘okay’ and Flynn chuckled softly.

“I’ll be back in a moment.”

As promised, he finished freshening up for bed faster than Lucy had thought. Flynn returned no later than twenty minutes, freshly changed into a pair of dark sweats and charcoaled long-sleeved shirt, his dark hair slightly damp. Going near the uncleaned windows, he grabbed the top-left corner of the mattress which was propped up against the wall and unceremoniously pushed the mattress down onto the cemented ground effortlessly, landing with a soft _thump._ Flynn shifted it with his foot so it laid adjacently beside Lucy’s.

She watched him as he set up the mattress with a linen sheet and grabbed a pillow off the foot of her bed. Seeing him nod his head in satisfaction, Flynn turned off the lamp by his desk and snuggled on the mattress, but not before inserting a small nightlight he had bought from Wal-Mart in the electrical socket near the door.

When Lucy eventually noticed the nightlight after spending the evening in his bedroom, she was curious why Flynn would need it to sleep. After all, it couldn’t be that he was simply afraid of the dark. He was no simpering child that was afraid of the _boogie monster_ that lurked under the bed or the closet. But much to Lucy’s surprise, it turned out to be something along those lines.

During one of their many late night talks, the older man had confessed that he was indeed afraid of the darkness and the _beasts_ that came with them. But it wasn’t like the typical child-like horror stories parents told their children before bedtime to instill fear so that they’d behave.

It wasn’t like that one bit.

Ever since Lorena and Iris were massacred by the Silencers in the dead of the night, Flynn made it a habit to turn on every single light in the household. If it were some unfortunate luck that he was able to hear them being murdered that night, then there was no way he was risking it a second time, especially since Rittenhouse was really on his tail. If he illuminated every room, at least he would be able to see those damn beasts and kill them once and for all.

When Lucy had learned of the tragic deaths of Flynn’s wife and daughter, her heart went out to him, even more so when his unusual fear of the dark stemmed from that night. It explained why she would wake up some evenings when she used to reside on the sofa in the living space to Flynn turning the kitchen lights and breathing a sigh of relief when he saw her very much alive. He’d developed this kind of post traumatic disorder and it was thanks to her family; Lucy couldn’t help but feel partially responsible.

Though, he certainly seemed to have calmed down ever since Lucy had taken up residence in Flynn’s bedroom indefinitely. She’d no longer woken up the sound of the heavy, metallic door unlocking in the distance, the bright, fluorescent lights overhead blinding her.  

The sheets rustled around her person as Lucy shifted her body onto her right side, glancing down at the resting silhouette of Garcia Flynn. A soft, orange-like glow shone dimly, making Flynn’s features more defined, sharper between the hue of the nightlight and the natural darkness of their bedroom. It was a rarity to see Flynn’s hair unkempt, specifically his bangs, which was usually slicked back with gel, giving him this suave, debonair-like appearance on their missions.

But right here, right now, lying beside the historian on their bedroom floor, Garcia Flynn just looked like a normal man.

“Like what you see, Lucy?”

Flynn’s deep, accented English cut through the silence of the night, effectively startling her, a little embarrassed that she had been caught. With aid from the nightlight, she could make out his eyes, still open, full with jollity.

Lucy harrumphed. “You wish.”

That earned her a chuckle from the man beneath her.

“Can’t help that I’m a compelling, masculine figure.” It was said so confidently, almost cockily. Lucy was glad she was on the upper bed so Flynn wouldn’t be able to see the roll of her eyes.

“Masculine?” She snorted. “Maybe. Compelling? Debateable.”

“Ouch. You wound me.”

Lucy laughed, grinning. “Well, you’re delusional.”

Flynn’s smile matched her own.

“Then, I guess we do make quite the team, eh, Lucy?” He took pleasure hearing her soft laughter ring out in the darkened space, unused to hearing such a happy sound from her, let alone the cause of it being _him_.

Amiable silence soon filled the former storage room. Flynn and Lucy lay still in their beds, smiling at each other, basking in this rare moment of happiness. The younger time traveller suddenly stretched her left arm out below her and swiped away a lone lock of hair away from his forehead, but not before gauging Flynn’s reaction. He mildly flinched seeing the hand reaching towards him but nonetheless allowed Lucy to give him this sort of small affection. Her fingers were cool in contrast to his warm forehead, still slightly damp from his earlier shower.

Lucy didn’t know what she was doing. Well, she did. She was full on conscious of her actions – she just didn’t know _why_ she was doing it. If someone had informed her that she and the man she had hunting throughout time were living together, sleeping together in the same quarters with them being slightly affectionate with each other, Lucy would’ve definitely refuse to believe them. It wasn’t too long ago that she and Flynn were enemies in this war; the reason for the existence of her team was to solely kill the former terrorist.

And here they were. Both fighting together on the right side of history, finally being a team, she like her future-self promised Flynn, and him to her (it came full circle).

Just as Lucy was about to retract her arm back to her side, Flynn lifted his left hand to meet her right one. The calloused pads of his fingers glided briefly against her smooth palm before loosely weaving his long fingers with her own. 

Other than the sound of the industrial sounds whirling monotonously in the distance and the dull hum of the electric currents, Lucy could hear her heartbeat, hammering loudly in her chest. Testing the waters, Lucy gently tried unlinking her fingers from his only to be met with his fingers slightly tightening around them. She glanced back down on the floor to see Flynn’s eyes already closed, ready to sleep.

Before she could resign herself to do the same, his deep brogue rang out one last time, squeezing her fingers softly.

“Goodnight, Lucy.”

_Huh._

This was the second time tonight that Flynn made any attempt to show affection towards the younger historian (or rather in the span in a few hours – it was currently morning after all). She didn’t _hate_ it per se; more like unaccustomed to.

And she definitely wouldn’t mind being used to this.

“…Goodnight, Flynn.”

x

When Lucy woken up a few hours later, she was alone.

The cloudy skies peered through the rusted, grimy windows, the nightlight unplugged from its socket. She stretched her arms above her back, the feeling of the aching muscles disappearing was utterly blissful. Turning her body, she noticed that the spot Flynn usually slept in was vacant, the mattress already propped up against the wall and the beddings lying at the foot of her bed.

Lucy noticed that the sheets on top of her were not crumpled around her person from her unconscious fitful rest so she guessed the Flynn took the liberty of tucking her inside the blankets again before he left for the morning.

It was his rare thoughtfulness such as these that brought a smile to her lips.

Lucy freshened up in the washroom with Jiya and she didn’t miss the suggestive smirk the young engineer seem to give her every morning the moment she found out that Lucy moved into Flynn’s bedroom indefinitely. The older woman would give Jiya a pointed glare to which was met to an even broader grin.

“I didn’t say anything,” Jiya would say in defense, arms up and her smile wide, but Lucy knew her all too well.

“Of course you didn’t,” Lucy said casually, cranking the old faucet to fill up her cup, “but the devious smirk you have on your face that’s usually reserved for when you’ve done something wrong says otherwise.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The younger woman’s face was a look of innocence and Lucy briefly wondered how many times Rufus fell for that look before it quickly morphed into a cheeky smile. “I was just wondering if you and Flynn banged yet.”

Just right when Lucy took a sip of the water to rinse her mouth, she quickly spit it back out, nearly choking at the forwardness and audacity Jiya had to ask that. They were close, yes, but not _that_ close ask such personal questions.

Seeing the humourous scene in front of her, Jiya shook her head. “I’ll take that as a no.”

“You’ll take that as a ‘none of your business’, Jiya!” Lucy retorted, wiping her mouth with her towel. For a moment, she felt bad for Rufus for having such an inquisitive woman as a girlfriend, but then again, he was just as bad when it came to him being nosy to hers and Wyatt’s past relationship.

The two women left at that, but Lucy didn’t miss the knowing look from Jiya reflected in the stained, washroom mirror.

Thankfully, Lady Luck continued to be on their side, extending beyond from last night’s adventure to Wal-Mart. Late in the afternoon, there was no alert that Rittenhouse had jumped into a different moment in time. That meant no time travelling for today. As much as Lucy and her inner historical nerdy side of her loved travelling throughout time and space, even she needed a little R&R. Just one day, Lucy didn’t want to see her mother, Emma or anyone that was an avid follower of a Neo-Nazi organization that was founded by her own blood. All she wanted was to relax at the bunker with everyone, drink some tea, read a few books and look forward to Flynn’s promised dinner.

Lucy was given just that.

Flynn, on the other hand, wanted to spend the day in the kitchen, prepping for this evening’s meal. He wanted it to be a surprise, just like his offer to cook for the first time, so he shooed everyone out of the kitchen and the living area.

“This better be the best bloody meal I’ve ever eaten if you’re kicking _me_ out of the kitchen,” Connor Mason grumbled, grabbing his tea that was situated on a small plate and another plate of biscuits, a newspaper tucked underneath his arm. “Best. Bloody. Meal. You understand, Flynn?”

Flynn only rolled his eyes in return, giving the older man a smarmy salute. “Yes, sir!”

Lucy spent a part of the afternoon in her former quarters with Jiya and Rufus, opting to pass the time playing some card games. Wyatt and his wife joined them in the cramped room, much to her dismay.

She didn’t know much card games, having spent her childhood with her nose stuff in various tomes and text (with the encouragement of her mother). Looking back on it, she never regretted the choices she made – it was thanks to her mother’s nagging that led her to be a time traveller – but not understanding the similar childhood Jiya, Rufus, and Wyatt experienced made Lucy see how much she missed out.

She briefly wondered if Amy knew any card games growing up. They never really played together now that Lucy thought about it. Despite being close, her younger sister lived the care-free life while the academia was Lucy’s life.

Well, she’ll never know now. There’s no used to dwelling on the past that never existed. A past only Lucy knew.

The older woman half-heartedly listened to the instructions of the game Wyatt explained to them, something about ‘cheating’?

“It’s called ‘Cheat’!” It was Wyatt’s voice.

Rufus looked distressed. “Yeah, well, I call it ‘Bullshit’! There can be more than one name to a game, Wyatt!”

The men’s significant others looked at each other, sharing a knowing gaze. How yeah, they can be difficult, but that didn’t mean they didn’t love them any less. Jiya and Jessica’s were utterly in love with their men and Lucy felt a twinge of jealousy and envy. She never really experienced it for herself. Her one-night relationship with Wyatt was nothing more than a late experience of teenage infatuation. After spending countless nights pondering the what-ifs of their relationship, Lucy concluded that she loved Wyatt, yes, but she wasn’t _in_ love with him. Remove the underlying infatuation she’d felt for the soldier, respect and admiration was what remained back to when they were still friends and comrades.  

Her thoughts wandered towards another man. Garcia Flynn. A man who’s claimed to be an open book, nothing to hide, but Lucy couldn’t exactly figure him out. Barrelling into her life with flames bursting around them, quite literally, he presented something to her that shook her to her core, something Lucy couldn’t quite understand, even over a year later when they first met, or in this case, four years for Flynn who claimed that he had originally met her from a different timeline. If it weren’t for her journal that was undoubtedly hers, Lucy wouldn’t give him the time of day and would’ve allowed Wyatt to kill him, just as they were instructed by the American Government.

But seeing Flynn’s eyes, hardened by his past yet also determined, a part of Lucy couldn’t help but believe him. She was proof before speculation – she was a historian – and the journal the terrorist was obsessed with that supposedly belonged to her was the physical proof of their relationship; that they were more than was destined.

Hearing Flynn present her with details about her life that only Lucy, herself, should know, made her wonder why in the seven hells did she ever give Flynn something so utterly _private_? She must’ve bared her soul in that black, leather-bound book and to give something that must be absolutely precious to her to the older man was way beyond her.

It became apparent that the contents of that book was more than just logs of Lucy’s time travelling missions, information on her friends in 1936. Flynn was aware of her depression from her breakup with Wyatt and her rising alcoholism through what was written in the journal, though a part of her believed that he was lurking in the shadows, being observant like the overgrown, snarky bat he was.

Yet, Lucy knew that Flynn’s nosiness in her business was his way of caring. It always was. It just appeared convoluted at times, his morals set between white and black. Especially in 1936, middle of the Great Depression, he had pushed her limits, made her lash out at him because he knew this was the only way Lucy would heal from her heartbreak. She needed to deal with the anger inside her from the sudden resurrection of Wyatt’s formerly dead wife and if Flynn needed to deal with the brunt end of her said anger, then so be it.

It took her a while to understand that he didn’t mean to be an asshole. Flynn – he…he just…cared.

And it was then did Lucy began seeing the older man in a different light. Garcia Flynn was no longer a time travelling killer who was only an asset to her and the team. He quickly became a confidant, her _friend_ , and next thing she knew, Flynn easily became the easiest person to talk to. It helped since he was the only person who understood what was she was going through. Rittenhouse brought Jessica back from the dead but they also took her Amy, and his Iris and Lorena away from them.

They’ll never stop hoping for a chance – for a bloody _miracle –_ to get the ones they love back, but perhaps, instead of constantly living in the past, maybe it was time to embrace the present, however limited even that may be.

Lucy was snapped out of her musings with a hand in front of her face, fingers snapping.

“Earth to Lucy!” She regained her focus and noticed it was Rufus who pulled her out of her thoughts. The brunette looked around the room, seeing everyone’s confused reactions mingled with concern. “You okay, Luce? You zoned out on us for a moment.”

“Huh?” Lucy blinked and gave them a tight smile. “Oh, yeah. I’m fine. What number are we on?” 

She glanced at the mountain of cards stacked in the middle and everyone’s concern quickly morphed into a sly grin.

“You know we can’t tell you that, Lucy,” Wyatt said, smiling at her pitifully. “It’s against the rules.”

 _Screw the rules,_ Lucy thought bitterly. Scanning the remaining cards in her hand, she plucked out two of them and placed it in the centre, face first.

“Two fives.” It sounded more of a question than a statement and everyone attacked her on that.

“Bullshit!” Rufus yelled with a satisfied cackle.

“We’re on jacks now,” Jiya explained apologetically, shoving the massive pile to her, though she definitely didn’t look sorry. Wyatt, Jessica, Rufus and Jiya all looked relieved to some extent, finally being able to start a new round without worrying which one of them will obtain basically the entire deck.

Lucy cursed underneath her breath as she fixed the jumbled up mess neatly into a deck and placed it all in her hands.

“I’ve never seen you so distracted before, Lucy,” Jessica piped up from across the circle they’ve formed in the centre of the room. “What were you thinking about?”

Wyatt also looked intrigued by his wife’s question and looked at Lucy curiously, wanting to know the answer too.

 _One,_ Lucy first thought testily, _don’t act like you know me._ _Two, it’s none of your business._

If Lucy could’ve voiced her thoughts and not worry about the consequences, then she so would but she held her tongue.

“More like _someone_ ,” Jiya interjected, sniggering. She immediately quieted down when she saw Lucy’s pointed glare.

“If you must know,” Lucy started, pretending to be engrossed in reorganizing her cards and categorizing them accordingly, “it’s none of your business.”

Collective groans rang out of the bedroom but one look at the older historian showed that there was no room for an elaboration. End of story and no one was brave enough to probe her for further questioning, though everyone had somewhat of inkling what caused Lucy to become distracted during their game (they’ll probably speculate it among themselves once Lucy’s gone though).

After two hours of learning and playing various kinds of card games, Lucy decided to call it quits which earned her the jeers of her peers. She excused herself, wanting to check up on Flynn and how he was doing. She pretended that she was going to retire back to her bedroom to read for a bit.

“You mean Flynn’s bedroom,” Wyatt said with a hint of distain; with her relationship with Flynn or just the man himself – Lucy didn’t know nor did she have any desire to figure that out.

“Technically, yes but it’s also mine. Well, ours,” she amended with the sway of her head. “Can I go or do you have any more witty remarks?” Lucy winced at the accidental coldness of her voice. She didn’t mean it but seeing the flash of hurt on Wyatt’s face, she could tell the damage had been done.

“No, ma’am,” Wyatt muttered grumpily underneath his breath and Jessica shot Lucy a look that she couldn’t quite decipher. Jiya and Rufus remained eerily quiet, not wanting to be extended the same coldness that Lucy gave to her ex-lover.

Lucy left the room feeling a bit guilty at how she behaved with Wyatt. It was harmless statement because it was Flynn’s bedroom. But maybe it was the animosity that the two men always harboured for each other that got Lucy a little bit defensive or Wyatt’s detestation for Lucy’s decision to seek comfort in the arms of the man he absolutely abhorred. Either way, she didn’t want to know the truth.

Glad that she was wearing slippers instead of her usual boots, the sounds of her footsteps clinking against the flooring was practically silent. Lucy understood that Flynn didn’t want anyone in the kitchen, wanting his special dinner for everyone to remain a surprise – Lucy was included in that too. But she couldn’t help the curiosity welling up inside her.

Just reaching the end of the corridor, Lucy peeked through to see Flynn’s back to her, dicing something up on the chopping board. His usual plain, grey, long-sleeved shirt was rolled up to his elbows, untucked from his beige trousers. Beside him on the stove was a pot boiling the contents of it and it definitely smelled aromatic. Lucy took a whiff.

_Strong, like green onions and…meat?_

Lucy wouldn’t pretend like she knew a thing or two about the culinary arts. She was a walking a hazard in the kitchen and couldn’t even make an edible sandwich for the young John F. Kennedy. But seeing Flynn slice and slide the ingredients into the pot with poise and ease left Lucy in awe. Even shoving _pans_ into the oven left her bewitched and wondered how much culinary knowledge did the older man possess? 

_Who puts pans in the oven? And for what? Why?_

It was almost as if she were watching the Food Network live, right here in the bunker. Who needs cable when she has Garcia Flynn cooking up a feast like he’s the next Gordon Ramsey or Jamie Oliver?

With the swipe of his knife against a cloth, he swung the towel over his shoulder and Lucy couldn’t hold back a little giggle seeing how utterly domestic this all looked. Hearing the sound, Flynn turned around to see Lucy peering at him from behind the wall.

He clicked his tongue like a parent gently shaming a child for a minor fault.

“I thought I told you to stay away from the kitchen, Lucy.”

Flynn didn’t looked bothered at the fact that Lucy disobeyed him, not when she can see his smug smirk that she was so accustomed to seeing. He wouldn’t be him without it.

Lucy pushed herself off the wall and walked into the kitchen and pulled out a chair from the dining table and sat down. Might as well get comfortable because there’s no way she’s leaving after smelling how delicious his food was.

“I stayed a couple hours away, gotta give me some credit.” Flynn laughed at the cheeky response, shaking his head ever so slightly.

“I take it you were bored hanging out with Wyatt, Rufus and them?” Flynn asked, briefly looking her way before resuming his prep work.

Lucy sighed. “Don’t get me wrong, I love this downtime with everyone,” she started. “It’s definitely something we don’t get too often.”

“But sometimes, it’s a bit too much,” Flynn finished for her.

Her shoulders sagged in relief, glad that he understood her. “Exactly.”

“I’d say you’re more than welcome to join me, Lucy, but that would be showing obvious favouritism, especially since I told everyone else to get the hell out.”

Flynn’s answer flattered her, happy to hear that out of everyone here, he liked her the most. But that was sort of a moot point since he also happen to dislike everyone in here with the exception of her. After all, the only reason why he was even still here in this bunker and hadn’t run off with the Lifeboat was because of his relationship with Lucy.

“You don’t like that many people to begin with, Flynn.”

“True,” he conceded. “I guess that means you can stay.”

Lucy rolled her eyes at his playful smile, similar to the one he gave her back in the hotel room in 1936, one that could be mistaken as flirty.

The former terrorist resumed his work cutting, boiling, stirring and a doing whole bunch of other things Lucy wasn’t quite sure of. A bunch of tiny green plants that appeared too small to be vegetables so she assumed those were…spices?

“So,” Lucy began, drumming her fingers against the table in anticipation, “what’s on the menu tonight?”

Flynn cracked open the oven just enough so he could peek in before closing it, adjusting the dials on the appliance to his satisfaction. He turned around and leant on the countertop.

“I was thinking something along the lines of a hearty, modern, American dinner,” Flynn stated with gusto; Lucy half wondered if that was sarcasm. She could never really tell with him since he’d practically invented sass and sarcasm.

“You serious?” Caitlin asked, almost deadpanned.

“Yeah,” he replied jovially. “I got the steaks and vegetables cooking in the oven right now after I pan-seared it.” Flynn then gestured to the stainless steel pot sitting on top the oven. “And I’m making a beef stew with a little twist of mine.”

Lucy wasn’t going to deny what Flynn described sounded mouth-watering. It had been awhile since she had a good, home cooked meal that wasn’t Denise’s leftovers, let alone steak and stew. Her expectations for tonight’s dinner had skyrocketed.

Grabbing a spoon from the drawer, he dipped it in the pot and offered Lucy a taste, his hand below the utensil to keep the liquid from dripping onto the floor. Flynn bent over a bit and presented the spoon close to her mouth, beckoning her to try it by him softly saying, “Ah.”

Embarrassed by how intimate the action seemed, Lucy tried taking the spoon from his hand but he wasn’t having it.

“I can feed myself!” Lucy said haughtily.

“I know you can but you’re in my kitchen and who knows? You could blow something up or something equally as devastating.”

“That’s quite an exaggeration, Flynn.”

He raised a thick brow. “Is it?” he questioned, before quirking his lips upwards in amusement. “Last I heard, you made a sandwich for the young, President Kennedy and he ran away.”

Lucy bristled. Was _everyone_ going to constantly remind her of her non-existent capabilities in the kitchen? It was the only instance where she thought she could be of use to aid the boy despite his utmost high station as the young, future president of the United States of bloody America (and in her defense, she _was_ physically ill from having suffered an infection from 1962 in Salem).

“Okay, first of all, JFK running away was absolutely not my fault in the slightest,” she defended. “Secondly, I –”

Before Lucy could get another word out, Flynn had rudely interrupted her by shoving the liquid filled spoon into her mouth. It took most of her willpower not to recoil in shock at the action and accidently choke herself. Slurping the sample of the beef stew, he withdrew the utensil from her mouth, the sound of the metal hitting her teeth.

“Good?” Flynn asked, tossing the spoon into the sink before resuming back at Lucy.

As much as she wanted to yell at Flynn for unabashedly pushing a spoon into her mouth without so much as a warning, Lucy couldn’t help but admit that single bite alone was absolutely heavenly. The stew was thick and flavourful, packing a thick, meaty taste. It wasn’t overbearingly salty like she was used to whenever her father – _step father,_ she reminded herself – would make it for a special occasion. Henry was a good cook, but definitely nowhere near Flynn’s level. This…This was definitely on a whole, new level that Lucy cannot wait to eat later on in the evening.

She wiped her lips with a napkin from the dispenser, shooting the older man a glare. “Next time, warn me before you shove something into my mouth,” Lucy grumbled, crumpling the napkin in a small ball before looking up at him and shooting him an honest glance. “But, yes. It’s actually more than good.”

Flynn seemed pleased by her response by the way his signature, mocking smirk quickly morphed into something more humanly.

“Good,” he harrumphed, resuming his ministrations back to the kitchen. “You know, the last time I cooked a home cooked meal for someone other than myself was when Lorena and our baby girl, Iris, were still alive.”

It was meant to be light, a way to make conversation but Lucy didn’t miss the sound of sadness and melancholy in the Croatian’s voice. The losses of their families to Rittenhouse was a strong connection bridged between them, the pain understandable – if not familiar – to each other. The pain and loneliness they felt and harboured inside of them was what made the two time travellers so undeniable close.

“What did you usually cook for them? On a regular, weeknight?” Lucy questioned softly, genuinely curious.

“Nothing fancy, if that’s what you’re wondering. Sometimes, I’d cook food from back home but Lorena wasn’t too fond of that, being born here in America and all. So, whenever I had the time, I’d make some American meals. Just some meats with mash potatoes and what not.” Flynn suddenly let out a small laugh, and shook his head, reminiscing an old but fond memory. “Iris – she was the pickiest of them all. No pleasing that one. She would come up to me, with this cutest pout of hers and big eyes, saying, ‘Daddy, daddy! I want macaroni and cheese!’ And the next moment, she would want something entirely different, like pizza, just right after her mother and I made it for her. It drove Lorena nuts at times.”

Lucy chuckled alongside Flynn at the particular scenario, imagining a little girl with Flynn’s striking, viridian eyes, begging him for food then changing her mind on a whim. She could see Flynn and his wife being put out by her childish whim but couldn’t really fault her – she was their little princess and Lucy knew how much he loved his family just by the way he spoke of them.

Flynn wouldn’t share this with her if he didn’t want her to know, or wanted her pity but Lucy couldn’t help but feel a sort of deep sorrow for the broken man. All he wanted was his family back and safe but he wasn’t even allowed that. Instead, he was here, confined in a bunker simply because they were either believed to be dead or highly wanted by the American Government, thanks to Rittenhouse. All he had left was hope but even that seemed to be running thin.

Flynn would always put on a brave smile, and tell her to keep on hoping and believing because one day, they’ll get back the people they love. Lucy almost believe it herself. Wyatt was a prime example of that; his resurrected wife was back from the dead and alive in the soldier’s arms. But seeing Flynn’s now forced smile, his green eyes no longer holding the strong conviction Lucy once saw burning bright, she almost wanted to hug him and comfort him. To rekindle the hope he used to have.

Instead, Lucy offered him her own stories; her own memories from her past, back when Amy actually existed. As she recalled countless instances over family dinners, Flynn listened attentively, making comments here and there, laughing when appropriate despite being occupied with his dinner prep. He had shown her as much interest in her reminisces just like she had done for him.

The former terrorist even referred back to some entries from Lucy’s future, leather-bound journal, wanting her to elaborate on the memories she inscribed in her book. To their surprises, Lucy elaborated, though each for different reasons. The topic of her journal was thin-ice, them cautiously dancing around it, especially for Flynn. He had come to terms that the Lucy he had encountered in Sao Paolo, Brazil, sitting beside him at the bar, was a completely different version of the Lucy sitting before him at the dining table. This Lucy did not have the experiences, memories or wisdom that the future version of herself will eventually have; the woman that Flynn was enamoured with. So, he stopped trying to conform Lucy into the Lucy he had previously met, to shape her into the woman the journal shaped her to be and accepted her as she was now.

Lucy, on the other hand, was surprised that Flynn wanted to know more about her. He recalled some entries from that journal that was dated from her past he wished for her to elaborate that seemed so personal; she was surprised that she even wrote it (or eventually will) but nonetheless, she humoured him. 

An hour had been spent sharing their stories from a past where they were once free and happy while Flynn had been simultaneously multitasking in the kitchen. He had pulled out ceramic plates and bowls, pouring and placing food into them with delicate precision.

Without turning around, he asked, “I trust you can do something simple as setting up the dining table?”

“I don’t know. I could blow something up or something equally as devastating,” Lucy replied cheekily, throwing his own words back at him.

Flynn laughed at that, shaking his head and Lucy smiled. Nonetheless, she got up and took the plates and cutlery out of their respective shelving, placing them neatly on the table. Just as she was about to grab the serviettes out of a plastic bag by the counter, Flynn turned towards her with a spoon in hand filled with a glaze, most likely a sauce. He beckoned her to open her mouth, his own in an ‘ah’ shape, a hand underneath the spoon.

Now knowing better, Lucy pretended to look exasperated before opening her mouth, and Flynn slipped the spoon inside, diverse flavours erupting all over her tongue.

“Taste good, Professor?” Flynn asked playfully, olive eyes darkly teasing.

“I-it’s fine,” Lucy hastily replied once Flynn withdrew the utensil from her lips. “Nothing wrong with it.”

She grabbed the serviettes with a little more force than necessary and froze when she saw a certain brown-skinned engineer smirking at the couple mischievously.

“Should I be concerned at how… _lovey-dovey_ this situation is or nah?” Jiya asked, her and Flynn sharing a knowing smirk.

“Jiya!” Lucy exclaimed. “There’s nothing ‘lovey-dovey’ about this at all! I was – I mean, we were…” Unable to come up with an accurate explanation as to why Flynn was spoon feeding her, the older woman looked up at Flynn helplessly, hoping he’d help her wedge out of this situation he placed her in. He looked between the two women and back at Lucy before shrugging with a grin, resuming with his tasks.

“You were…” Jiya trailed off expectantly, parroting Lucy.

“We were just…” Realization dawned on Lucy when she saw Flynn shake with silent laughter from the corner of her eye and the younger girl’s smile only growing broader that Flynn planned this. He must’ve saw Jiya entering the kitchen first. That’s when he decided to feed her, and then tease her mercilessly.

Lucy spun around and glared at Flynn’s tall form. “You son of a bitch, you knew Jiya was there, didn’t you?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Lucy,” Flynn answered innocently, though the mirth dancing in his eyes when he looked at Rufus’s precognitive empath girlfriend claimed otherwise.

He hadn’t meant to tease her but when Jiya walked in the room, a part of Flynn wanted to joke around, to be playful. He also knew that out of all the team members, Jiya would be the least averse to seeing him act in such manner towards everyone’s favourite historian. Plus, he had an inkling she already knew about his feelings towards Lucy as well by the way she’d smirk at them.

Flynn wiped his hands on a rag before throwing it over his shoulders and looked at Jiya. “Tell the others dinner’s ready in five,” he instructed. She nodded and disappeared down the corridor.

The brunette finally finished setting up the dining table and assisting Flynn to put the dishes in the center of it.

Once finished, Lucy pointed at him warningly. “Behave,” she ordered. “No more of this…this playfulness.”

“Save it for the bedroom?” he suggested innocently before sniggering when Lucy swatted him in the arm.

“Flynn!”

“Got it, ma’am.”

Just as Jiya was instructed, one by one, everyone began trickling inside the kitchen followed by collected gasps. Denise and Mason were the last ones to arrive and brows rose upwards in surprise. Flynn stood by the sink with a smug smirk, revelling at the look of everyone’s look of amazement.

Rufus was the first one to speak up. “There’s absolutely _no way_ that Flynn –” He pointed at the taller man and back at the feast before them on the table. “– made all this! This looks like it came straight out of ‘ _Ratatouille_ ’! But real, of course. Not animated.”

“This is quite the spread, Flynn,” Denise remarked, clearly mesmerised. Thick cuts of steak, stew with beans, loaves of breads, vegetables, mashed potatoes – it truly looked like a typical, hardy, American feast and no one bothered to hide their amazement.

Flynn humbly nodded his head in response, his way of accepting unwarranted praise. Everyone quickly sat down at their usual spots, all eager to eat this rare, home cooked meal they were fortunately blessed with, even if it was created by someone they were once ordered to kill.

The chef of the day was last to be seated, placing two extra plates on the table; one in the center with the other meals sat and the other in front of Denise. Seeing the look of confusion on his superior’s face, he was quick to elaborate.

“I know you do not eat beef due to your background, Agent Christopher. So, as an alternative, I’ve prepared deep fried chicken cutlet for you.”

Denise’s face lit up, touched at Flynn’s thoughtfulness. “Why, thank you, Flynn.” She took a whiff of the food and her smile grew broader. “Smells absolutely delicious too.”

He humbly nodded his head in response before situating himself in his usual spot on the dining table.

Lucy couldn’t help but be impressed by Flynn’s actions as well. She knew he took great pride in his culinary creations by the way he picked out ingredients from Wal-Mart meticulously to the way he cooked them. The fact he remembered that Agent Christopher’s religious background was Hinduism and took that into account to what he’s making them showed that in some way, he did care for all of them – not just Lucy. Not that he’ll ever admit it though.

Wyatt, on the other hand, seemed less than stellar at the food presented in front of them. “What’s that over there?” he asked, pointing at the plate Flynn had brought out moments ago.

Flynn didn’t miss the sound of skepticism and distrust in the younger man’s voice.

“That, Wyatt, are thick covered bacon wrapped around mashed potatoes,” he answered.

“So, you’re basically telling me it’s just going to be a soggy, fatty bite.” Wyatt scoffed, laughing in disbelief. “I’m not really digging it, Flynn.”

Flynn’s olive eyes hardened. “That’s not what I’m telling you, Wyatt. The Yukon Gold potatoes are peeled, sliced and then steamed. It’s later mashed and over roasted with pan-fried ingredients such as garlic, onions, and king oyster mushrooms.” He then pointed to the red sauce glistening enticingly on the white, ceramic plate. “The demi-glace was made by red wine, butter and the soy sauce packets that no one wanted from your bland, instant ramen.”

Wyatt felt his face flame up in embarrassment, clearly wasn’t expecting how intricate the process was making such a simple item. To make it even worse, Flynn jabbed a fork into one of the pieces and offered it to Wyatt in a feeding matter. Only difference was, it was cute when he did to Lucy. This was just plain condescending to Wyatt. Rubbing salt in the wound and Flynn was loving every moment of it.

“Try it.”

When the younger soldier made no visible move to take it from Flynn’s hands, Mason cut in and took the piece off the utensil, popping it into his mouth. He was quiet for a moment, chewing carefully, before his eyes widened in excitement.

“This is absolutely superb!” Mason commended Flynn, his London’s accent thick, before looking at Jessica’s husband. “You know, Wyatt, if you aren’t going to eat that, you might as well pass it on this way.”

At the sound of Mason’s rare approval, everyone began digging in, grabbing until their plates were filled up. Groans of pleasure could be heard all across the table when they took their first bite, and Wyatt begrudgingly admitted that Flynn was one hell of a cook. The steak was cooked to how he liked it, the vegetables weren’t bland to his surprise and the stew absolutely aromatic.

“Now, was that so hard to admit?” Flynn asked smugly to which Wyatt only scowled at him harder.

“It’s a tad better than Lucy’s sandwiches,” Wyatt grumbled, sawing through his steak with a knife with more force than necessary. “Just a tad.”

An undignified ‘hey’ came from the other end of the table and the two men couldn’t help but chuckle at that. They looked at each other for a second, but resumed eating the food on their plates. It wasn’t much, but they’ll take that as a small peace offering between them.

“Why am I the one being attacked here?” huffed Lucy.

Jiya chimed in. “It’s true, though! President Kennedy ran out of here before she could even give that sorry excuse of a sandwich to him, poor boy.”

“Yeah, it was sad,” Jessica agreed. “It was like a soggy mess with the condiments and lettuces hanging off the bread.”

Laughter rang all across the table, the atmosphere significantly lighter than it was two minutes ago. Among this group that were formed in the worst circumstances imaginably, they were a family. A dysfunctional one no less, but still, they loved and cared for each other as a family. Rittenhouse may have taken their real ones but in the midst of blood and chaos, they formed a new one.

And none of them would trade it away.

X

Dinner was an absolute success, all of them raving on how an excellent chef Flynn was. He felt humbled to a degree and then irked when Rufus suggested him to cook for the team every single night.

Rufus didn’t get a packaged chocolate croissant for dessert that night.

But the praises, the smiles, the warm feeling he received from everyone that would usually scorn and mock him made Garcia Flynn almost consider it. It was a foreign feeling that he was used to only receiving from the Stanford historian but he wasn’t opposed to it either.

The time team lounged for a bit in the makeshift living room, beers in hand, exchanging stories from their past and humorous moments from their time travelling trips. Lucy was unconsciously pressed up against Flynn’s side, his arm spread out on the top of the sofa behind her back, telling stories about her supposedly married life with Noah. Both Wyatt and Flynn were surprised that Lucy was engaged but relieved when she reassured them that she unofficially ended it with the surgeon.

“I don’t know what I would do if I suddenly woke up in a new timeline and married to a guy I have no memories of,” an intoxicated Jiya said on the floor with her boyfriend sitting behind her, shuddering at the very thought. “I dunno, man. Rufus’s the only one for me, I guess.”

“Aww, babe,” Rufus crooned from behind her, holding her tightly against him and pressing a kiss against her cheek. “You’re the only one for me, too. Even if you’re a Trekkie.” A sober Jiya would’ve let out a cry of indignation at that remark, but a drunk Jiya simply giggled as her boyfriend showered her face with peppery kisses.

Jessica smiled at the couple on the ground and mirrored Rufus’s action, kissing her husband on the cheek. Wyatt glanced at her in surprise and then back at Lucy, as if her were gauging her reaction. Lucy, sitting across from her ex-lover didn’t even bat an eye. She had passed on from feeling hurt and jealous from the affection his wife would give him.

Lucy peered up to look at Flynn, unknowingly that he was being watched. He had a soft smile as he regarded the people playing and teasing each other in front of him – his family. He tilted his head towards her and his expression was more open than she had ever seen it. His arm slid down from the sofa and rested it loosely around her shoulders. When Lucy tentatively placed her head against his chest, it was only then did his fingers slowly curled over her shoulder possessively.

At this moment, she didn’t care about the shifting eyes, the sly grin everyone was giving them and neither did Flynn. While neither knew where they stood with each other, this – this felt right. His arm around her, his heartbeat hammering loudly in his chest underneath her ear. It _was_ right.

“Oi!” Jiya suddenly shouted drunkenly, breaking free from Rufus’s embrace. “Don’t think we don’t see ya acting like a couple love birds over there!”

While Lucy’s face flamed up in embarrassment at their teammate’s loud pronouncement, Flynn just chuckled and took a sip out of his beer, still holding Lucy close.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Jiya,” he replied unashamedly, offering her a sly smile.

The youngest woman waved a hand dismissively. “Everyone here thinks you two are banging,” Jiya slurred. “I mean, c’mon! You guys are sharing a room together! Like me and Rufus –” She leaned over to give Rufus a kiss but missed his lips and ended up kissing him on his chin. She giggled and then pointed at the married couple. “–and Wyatt and Jessica!”

“Okay, you’re clearly drunk right now,” Rufus grumbled underneath his breath, trying to prevent his only girlfriend from moving all over the place in her drunken state.

Lucy sighed. A part of her understood what Jiya was saying, and despite her state of intoxication, it was quite a valid point. After ending things with Wyatt when Jessica was resurrected from the dead thanks to Rittenhouse, Flynn was there to mend her heartbreak.

His newfound kindness, his eagerness to be with her in any way whether it be him in jail or beside her on the floor in their bedroom made Lucy view Flynn in a different light. He was no longer a time travelling killer that was a substitute for Wyatt on missions; an asset for their team in their quest to wipe a Neo-Nazi organization that was also Lucy’s blood family.

Yet, she’d be lying if she said wasn’t scared for what she felt for Flynn.

Part of it was the guiltiness for latching onto someone who had shown her kindness in her hour of need and emotional vulnerability after breaking up with Wyatt in the matter of weeks. For both their sakes, Lucy didn’t want to lead Flynn on, believing their relationship went beyond the realms of comradery.  

But it did.

When she had woken up in Flynn’s bedroom with him peering down at her, showing her a boyish smile and his dark hair mussed up, she didn’t find herself adverse to the fact maybe they’ve slept together. Lucy couldn’t help but feel disappointed when he confirmed that nothing happened, that she wasn’t in fact a ‘gentle and responsive lover’.  

As one night in his room turned into two, then three, and then indefinitely, that’s when Lucy permitted herself to admit that this… _feeling_ she tried to repress for the older man was in fact romantic, not platonic. But she couldn’t bare her feelings to him, not when she didn’t know where his lay.

Lucy couldn’t bear the thought of her heart being broken by the man who once sworn to never hurt her. Not again, and definitely not by Garcia Flynn.

But seeing his green eyes look down at her with such vulnerability, with such emotion, her breath hitched in her throat.

“No but seriously, Lucy,” the young woman insisted, “Just be with the old man already! I mean, even Rufus and Jess agrees! Right?”

Rufus looked uncomfortable at the fact his intoxicated girlfriend put him in the spotlight. “I really don’t like the idea of the creepy uncle of this family banging someone who’s essentially my sister, but I admit, I _am_ surprised you two aren’t together. Y’know, like Odo and Kira. Though, even that couple is sorta weird.”

“I think you two work,” Jessica jumped in, giving her thoughts. “I haven’t been here long to really understand you two, but if it’s one thing I’m certain of, it’s that I’m not blind to love. What you two have, it’s unique. It’s _real_. Just give it a chance.”

_It’s unique. It’s real._

If they had to describe their relationship, Jessica’s description of them was the most accurate one of them all. Their relationship was founded on time travelling, woven together through a leather bound notebook. It was so utterly _unique_ and theirs, that it cannot be duplicated, replicated. That no matter what timeline they’re stranded in, they will always be Lucy Preston and Garcia Flynn to each other.

“Okay.” Lucy’s words were barely audible but she knew of his abnormally keen senses from his time spent in the military. Flynn heard her. With the way his grin broadened, his olive eyes filled with affection towards Lucy, he had heard her.

And he felt the same. Dear gods, he felt the same.

X

The rest of the evening was spent finishing the remainder of their opened cans and bottles of beer. Rufus called in early due to the fact the love of his life was clearly incapable of doing any basic, functional motor skills. Wyatt and Jessica also called it an early night, and dispersed to their bunkers, but not before thanking Flynn for the food.

That just left the Flynn and Lucy alone on the sofa.

They cleaned up after themselves in comfortable silence, occasionally sending each other bashful smiles (though, this was mostly on Lucy’s part – Flynn couldn’t help but smile back at her reaction).

As they were about to walk back down the corridor and into his – their – bedroom, Flynn slipped his larger hand into hers. Lucy only flushed feeling as if she were a teenager again (even if she was thirty-five and the man holding her hand was forty-three – definitely far from being the age range of teenagers).

Back in the privacy of their quarters, he released his grip but didn’t move.

“Did you mean it, Lucy?” Flynn asked, his voice soft, perhaps even softer than Lucy’s when she confessed. “Did you mean it when you said, ‘okay’?”

Lucy looked up at him. Did she mean it when that one, quiet ‘okay’ meant absolutely everything to her? That with one word, she’s finally moving on? That she’ll take a chance on him – on them?

Embolden from the bottles of beer she had earlier in the evening, Lucy reached a slender hand up to cup his cheeks. When Flynn didn’t shy away from her touch, she gently placed it on his face; his skin was warm, and the slight stubble from his five o’clock shadow tickled her palm. His eyes fluttered shut as he leaned into her hand, his lips ghosting the edge of Lucy’s thumb.

“I meant it, Flynn,” Lucy confirmed, caressing her thumb on his cheek. “I’m okay with what I feel for you. I’m okay spending every day learning new things about you, things I can eventually write down in my journal. I’m okay falling asleep and waking up next to you. I’m okay fighting with you only if it means we can talk it out, like we always do.” Her hand slid from his cheek, past his ear to the nape of his neck. “I’m okay with being with you.”

Flynn subconsciously licked his lips, a sinful action that had Lucy tempted to kiss the older man right then and there. But there was just one thing first…

“But what do you want from me, Flynn? Do you want this?”

It was a question she had asked him countless times before, one that never elicited a proper response from him. From 1954 and 1936, none of the answers he had failed to provide never mattered more to Lucy than the present right now, right her in their bedroom in 2018.

_“What do you want from me, Flynn? My blessing?”_

_“What do you want from me, Flynn? You don’t know me.”_

“What do you want from me, Flynn?” Lucy asked again, but this time for herself, for that one finally hope that he won’t turn her away, that he’ll fail to provide an answer again. “Do you want this?”

“ _I don’t want anything from you.”_

_“Well…I guess we’re having our own ‘awkward moment’ right now.”_

Flynn pursed his lips and raised his own hand and caressed Lucy’s face, just like she had done to him what seemed centuries ago when it was only mere minutes ago. Lucy never really understood what people meant when they claimed that time slowed down when you’re experiencing ‘that one golden moment in your lifetime’. Time was an indefinite continued progress of existence and events that had no way of being slowed down. Reversed, or fast forward but no slowing down. Yet, the way Garcia Flynn prolonged his response, and the painstakingly slow caress of his hand on her face, it was only then did the historian finally understood what the rest of society meant.

“I think you know what I want from you, Lucy.” Flynn’s voice was deep and rough and dear gods, he was so close; Lucy felt her heart hammer loudly against her ribcage. How could he do that with just his voice alone? How could he make her want him this badly?

“I want you to say it,” she murmured.

He shook his head as if to disagree but a fond smile danced on his lips as his regarded Lucy in his arms with admiration and adoration. “I’ve always wanted you from the beginning, Lucy. I believe I’ve said as such, even when we were reacquainted for the second time in the train station in 1965. Just in what context – well, I believe that took me a little longer to figure that one out. I’m sorry.” Placing both hands on her face, Flynn gently pulled the time travelling historian towards him and pressed his lips against her forehead. “But I do want you, Lucy. I want to get to know you – _this_ you. I want to become a man worthy of you. I want to be there for when we finally take those Rittenhouse bastards. I want…”

“Yes…?” Lucy prompted.

With a growl, Flynn leant down and said, “Damn it, Lucy. I just want _you_.” With that, he captured her lips in a deep, desperate kiss that didn’t stop until he somehow maneuvered them over towards her bed.

“Be mine, Lucy Preston,” Flynn murmured, his olive eyes lacking their usual teasing light and their seriousness combined with his deep, accented brogue saying her name, Lucy held no chance if she had second thoughts.

“You…” _You’re not playing fair, Garcia Flynn,_ was what she wanted to say, but the words wouldn’t come, suddenly feeling overwhelmed at how serious Flynn was being. That he truly wanted her to be his, and vice versa. Instead, she found herself reaching up for him and pulling him down into a kiss.

Months of living with him, weeks of living with him inside their bedroom, sleeping and waking up next to him, Lucy poured all her pent up emotions into that one kiss, hoping Flynn would understand how much she wanted this.

The tenderness in his eyes when they parted made her heart twist in happiness.

“I’ll be yours, Garcia Flynn,” Lucy finally answered. “Always.”

X

Their relationship certainly wasn’t kept a secret when their teammates questioned newfound ‘love is in the air’ vibe that settled around Flynn and Lucy. They only shrugged in response, Flynn kissing Lucy in front of them before parting to make coffee.

Jiya was livid when she found out that she inadvertently played matchmaker the previous evening, clearly was too intoxicated to remember such thing. Connor and Agent Christopher claimed they knew it was coming, it was only a matter of time.

“Honestly, Lucy,” Mason started, shaking his head while sipping his morning coffee, “no offense, but I was seriously wondering if you were too thick to see that Flynn fancied you. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see that.”

Wyatt, on the other hand, didn’t handle the news too greatly, avoiding their eyes, even though he had a feeling that day would arrive sooner than later. He saw it coming, even as far when he found out that Lucy and Flynn had been meeting him behind his back in 1972, back to the Watergate. He just didn’t want to admit it to himself. Hell, he didn’t even want to think that maybe it wasn’t Flynn or Jessica who got in the way of Lucy and Flynn’s relationship but rather it was Wyatt who interfered with theirs. After all, the future version of Lucy was the one who risked time travelling in their own timeline just to give Flynn something so utterly precious to her, not Wyatt.

Jessica approached them in her sweats, her short hair tied back in a low ponytail.

“I’m sorry for my husband’s behaviour,” Jessica said. “I don’t think he’s completely over…” The younger woman let the words trail off while glancing at Lucy knowingly, a look of hurt passing over the blonde’s face. She may be married to Wyatt, but this was not _her_ Wyatt she had been married to since high school. This Wyatt still had feelings for Lucy but she could see he was trying to move on, no matter how hard it was on him.

She cleared her throat, giving Flynn and Lucy a tight smile. “Wyatt will get over it eventually. Don’t take it personally.”

“None taken,” Flynn reassured, wrapping his arms around Lucy’s waist.

The brunette couldn’t help but feel a twinge of guilt for hurting Wyatt. He was still her friend and comrade. But still, Lucy heeded Jessica’s words nonetheless. She had moved on and so should he.

She wasn’t exactly in love but the way her breathe stopped in throat, her heart beating loudly in her chest when Flynn walked in the room and gave her a smile that was reserved just for her, she might was well be. And the way Lucy would smile at him back, she could tell Flynn was equally in love with her.

She only hoped that this time, this love she shared with Garcia Flynn lasts.

X

One year, six months and fourteen days later, Flynn smiled contentedly as Jiya wrapped a gauze around a gunshot wound in his bicep.

“You know, Flynn,” Jiya started, “most people aren’t this happy about getting shot from a Rittenhouse lackey.”

“It wasn’t at pointblank and I’m still alive,” Flynn said.

“Whatever, weirdo…”

His green eyes glazed over towards where his fiancé was sitting, her right hand over her swelling stomach, and the other proudly showing a platinum band that was situated on her ring finger to Denise and Mason. Lucy Preston was to be a Lucy Flynn and so was their child.

“How could I not be happy?” Flynn asked Jiya, his voice soft.

Jiya’s eyes trailed over towards Lucy and noticed that the older woman caught the eye of her future husband and settled on him contently, as if Jiya Marri didn’t exist. That was love right there, the way they broadly grinned at each other as if nothing could stand in their way. She was fortunate to have that with Rufus.

She smiled softly to herself. “I see what you mean, Flynn,” she agreed but the former terrorist was too busy admiring his new future family to hear.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Before giving me kudos, kudos to YOU for reading this 19k+ mess of a fic. Please, PLEASE leave a kudos or if you want to go an extra mile, please leave a comment telling me how much you liked it or if you wanna just say hello! Words of encouragements keeps me going as a writer. If you wanna private message me, I can be reached on twitter @FrostWells! My DMS are open 24/7!


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